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POETIC   STUDIES. 


BY 


ELIZABETH    STUART   PHELPS, 

AUTHOR  OF  "THE  GATES  AJAR,"  ETC,  ETC. 


BOSTON: 
JAMES    R.    OSGOOD    AND    COMPANY, 

LATE  TICKNOR  &  FIELDS,  AND  FIELDS.  OSGOOD,  &  Co. 


COPYRIGHT,  1875. 
BY  JAMES  R.  OSGOOD  &  CO. 


UNIVERSITY  PRESS:  WELCH,  BIGELOW,  &  Co. 
CAMBRIDGE. 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

THAT  NEVER  WAS  ON  SEA  OR  LAND 1 1 

DIVIDED 18 

THE  LOST  WINTER 20 

APPLE-BLOSSOMS 25 

RAIN 28 

PETRONILLA 30 

Two  IPS 45 

A  QUESTION 47 

IN  TEETH  OF  FATE 49 

"Dm  YOU  SPEAK?" 51 

BROKEN  RHYTHM 56 

ON  THE  BRIDGE  OF  SIGHS 57 

HIDE-AND-GO-SEEK        ....               ...  59 


iv,£95956 


Vlll  CONTENTS. 

GIVING  OF  THANKS 6! 

FEELING  THE  WAY 63 

LEARNING  TO  PRAY 64 

WHAT  THE  SHORE  SAYS  TO  THE  SEA         .        ,        .        .    66 
WHAT  THE  SEA  SAYS  TO  THE  SHORE     ....        69 

ATALANTA 73 

A  LETTER 7^ 

AN  AUTUMN  VIOLET 7g 

DESERTED  NESTS go 

THE  DIFFERENCE 81 

CONGRATULATION      ........        83 

GOOD-BY 88 

Two  FACES 9O 

LAND-BOUND 96 

A  MESSAGE 9g 

ESCAPED IOJ 

SONG I03 

"  OF  A  FAMILY  OF  REFORMERS  " 105 

A  DEAD  LILY I09 

BENEDICTION .no 


CONTENTS.  1X 

"ONLY  A  CHROMO" II2 

A  WOMAN'S  MOOD     .        .       . ix9 

A  MAN'S  REPLY I27 

EVENING  PRAYER :32 

SATURDAY  NIGHT  IN  THE  HARBOR      ....  134 

THE  LOST  POEM J37 

ALL  THE  RIVERS J39 


THAT  NEVER  WAS  ON  SEA  OR   LAND. 

I  DREAMED  that  same  old  dream  again  last  night ; 
You  know  I  told  you  of  it  once,  and  more  : 
The  sun  had  risen,  and  looked  upon  the  sea, 
And  turned  his  head  and  looked  upon  the  shore, 
As  if  he  never  saw  the  world  before. 

What  mystic,  mythic  season  could  it  be  ? 
It  was  October  with  the  heart  of  May. 
How  count  they  time  within  love's  calendar  ? 
Dreaming  or  waking,  I  can  only  say 
It  was  the  morning  of  our  wedding-day. 


12  THAT   NEVER   WAS    ON    SEA    OR    LAND. 

I  only  know  I  heard  your  happy  step, 

As  I  sat  working  on  my  wedding-day 

Within  my  usual  place,  my  usual  task  ; 

You    came    and    took    the    pen,    and    laughing, 

"  Nay  !  " 
You  said,  "no  more  this  morning!     Come  away!" 

And  I,  who  had  been  doing  dreamily 
Within  my  dream  some  fitful  thing  before, 
(My  pen  and  I  were  both  too  tired  to  stop,) 
Drew    breath, —  dropped    all  my  work  upon  the 

floor, 
And  let  you  lead  me  mutely  to  the  door, 

And  out  into  a  place  I  never  saw, 

Where  little  waves  came  shyly  up  and  curled 


THAT  NEVER  WAS  ON  SEA  OR  LAND.     13 

Themselves  about  our  feet  ;    and  far  beyond 
As  eye  could  see,  a  mighty  ocean  swirled. 
"  We  go,"  you  said,  "  alone  into  the  world." 

But  yet  we  did  not  go,  but  sat  and  talked 
Of  usual  things,  and  in  our  usual  way ; 
And  now  and  then  I  stopped  myself  to  think,— 
So  hard  it  is  for  wo.rk-worn  souls  to  play,  — 
Why,  after  all  it  is  our  wedding-day  ! 

The  fisher-folk  came  passing  up  and  down, 
Hither  and  thither,  and  the  ships  sailed  by, 
And  busy  women  nodded  cheerily  ; 
And  one  from  out  a  little  cottage  came, 
With     quiet     porches,    where     the    vines     hung 
high, 


14          THAT   NEVER   WAS    ON    SEA   OR   LAND. 

And  wished  us  joy,  and  "  When   you  're    tired," 

she  said, 

"  I  bid  you  welcome  ;  come  and  rest  with  me." 
But  she  was  busy  like  the  rest,  and  left 
Us  only  out  of  all  the  world  to  be 
Idle  and  happy  by  the  idle  sea. 

And  there  were  colors  cast  upon  the  sea 
Whose  names  I  know  not,  and  upon  the  land 
The  shapes  of  shadows  that  I  never  saw  ; 
And  faintly  far  I  felt  a  strange  moon  stand,  — 
Yet  still  we  sat  there,  hand  in  clinging  hand, 

And    talked,    and    talked,    and    talked,    as   if    it 

were 
Our  last  long  chance  to  speak,  or  you  to  me 


THAT  NEVER  WAS  ON  SEA  OR  LAND.     15 

Or  I  to  you,  for  this  world  or  the  next ; 
And  still  the  fisherwomen  busily 
Passed    by,    and    still    the    ships    sailed    to    the 
sea. 

But  by  and  by  the  sea,  the  earth,  the  sky, 
Took  on  a  sudden  color  that  I  knew ; 
And  a  wild  wind  arose  and  beat  at  them. 
The  fisherwomen  turned  a  deadly  hue, 
And  I,  in  terror,  turned  me  unto  you, 

And   wrung   my   wretched   hands,    and    hid  .my 

face. 

"  O,  now  I  know  the  reason,  Love,"  I  said, 
"  We  've  talked,  and  talked,  and  talked  the  live 
long  day,' 


1 6  THAT   NEVER   WAS    ON    SEA   OR   LAND. 

Like  strangers,  on  the  day  that  we  were  wed ; 
For  I  remember  now  that  you  were  dead ! " 

I  woke  afraid  :  around  the  half-lit  room 

The  broken  darkness  seemed  to  stir  and  creep  ; 

I  thought  a  spirit  passed  before  my  eyes  ; 

The   night   had    grown   a    thing    too    dread   for 

sleep, 
And  human  life  a  lot  too  sad  to  weep. 

Beneath  the  moon,  across  the  silent  lawn, 

The    garden    paths    gleamed    white,  —  a  mighty 

cross 

Cut  through  the  shadowed  flowers  solemnly : 
Like  heavenly  love  escaped   from  earthly  dross, 
Or  heavenly  peace  born  out  of  earthly  loss. 


THAT  NEVER  WAS  ON  SEA  OR  LAND.     17 

And    wild    my    uncalmed    heart   went   question 


ing  it: 


"  Can  that  which  never  has  been  ever  be  ?  " 
The  solemn  symbol  told  me  not,  but  lay 
As  dumb  before  me  as  Eternity, 
As  dumb  as  you  are  when  you  look  at  me. 


DIVIDED. 

IF  an  angel  that  I  know 
Should  now  enter,  sliding  low 
Down    the   shaft   of  quiet   moonlight    that   rests 

upon  the  floor ; 

And  if  she  should  stir  and  stand 
With  a  lily  in  her  hand, 

And   that   smile  of  treasured   stillness    that   she 
wore, 

Should  I,  falling  at  her  feet, 
Brush  or  kiss  her  garments  sweet  ? 


DIVIDED.  IQ 

Would   their   lowest   least   white   hem   upon    me 

unworthy,  fall  ? 

Or  would  she  guarded,  stand, 
Drop  the  lily  in  my  hand, 

And   go   whispering    as   she   vanished,  "  This   is 
all"? 


THE   LOST   WINTER. 

DEEP-HEARTED  as  an  untried  joy 
The  warm  light  blushes  on  the  bay, 

And  placid  as  long  happiness 
The  perfect  sky  of  Florida. 

Silent  and  swift  the  gulls  wheel  by, — 
Fair  silver  spots  seen  fittingly 

To  sparkle  like  lost  thoughts,  and  dip 
And  vanish  in  a  silver  sea. 

And  green  with  an  immortal  spring 
The  little  lonely  islands  stand  ; 


THE    LOST    WINTER.  21 

And  lover-like,  the  winds  caress 

The  fresh-plucked  roses  in  my  hand. 

And  sweet  with  all  the  scents  of  June, 
And  gentle  with  the  breath  of  May, 

And  passionate  with  harvest  calm, 

Dawns  the  strange  face  of  Christmas-day. 

O  vanished  world  of  ache  and  chill ! 

If  purple-cold  the  shadows  blow 
Somewhere  upon  the  shrunken  cheeks 

Of  wan,  tormented  drifts  of  snow ; 

And  if,  beneath  the  steady  stare 
Of  a  pale  sunset's  freezing  eye, 


22  THE   LOST   WINTER. 

The  coming  tempest,  lurking,  stabs 
The  lonely  traveller  hurrying  by,— 

What  art  can  make  me  understand  ? 

What  care  I,  can  I  care  to  know? 
Star-like,  among  the  tender  grass, 

The  little  white  wild-flowers  show  ! 

There  is  no  winter  in  the  world  ! 

There  is  no  winter  anywhere  ! 
Earth  turns  her  face  upon  her  arm, 

And  sleeps  within  the  golden  air. 

If  once  within  the  story  told  — 
Of  peace  or  pain,  of  calm  or  strife 


THE    LOST   WINTER.  23 

The  clear  revealed  sequences 
Of  every  finished  human  life, 

It  chanceth  that  the  record  reads  : 

This  wanderer,  something  torn  and  tossed 

By  certain  storms  he  had  passed  through, 
And  something  faint  and  chilly,  lost 

Just  here  a  little  while  the  sense 

Of  winter  from  his  heavy  heart, 
And  felt  within  his  life  the  roots 

Of  spring  eternal  stir  and  start ; 

Could  not  one  blessed  little  while, 
For  very  happiness,  believe 


24  THE   LOST   WINTER. 

That  anywhere  upon  God's  earth 

Souls  could  be  cold  and  worn  and  live, — 

That  blessed  once  a  glory  were 

Enough,  I  think,  to  crown  one's  days. 

O  swift-departing  days  of  youth, 
Lend  me  your  evanescent  grace 

Of  fancy,  while  my  graver  years 
Like  happy  children  rise  and  bless 

The  shadow  of  the  memory  of 

Love's  sweet  and  helpless  selfishness  ! 

Ah,  many,  many  years  shall  learn 

To  blush  and  bloom  as  young  years  may, 

But  only  once  the  soul  forget 
All  else  but  its  own  Florida! 


APPLE-BLOSSOMS. 

COLD  Care  and  I  have  run  a  race, 
And  I,  fleet-foot,  have  won 

A  little  space,  a  little  hour, 
To  find  the  May  alone. 

I  sit  beneath  the  apple-tree, 

I  see  nor  sky  nor  sun  ; 
I  only  know  the  apple-buds 

Are  opening  one  by  one. 

You  asked  me  once  a  little  thing,  - 
A  lecture  or  a  song 
2 


26  APPLE-BLOSSOMS. 

To  hear  with  you  ;   and  yet  I  thought 
To  find  my  whole  life  long 


Too  short  to  bear  the  happiness 
That  bounded  through  the  day, 

That  made  the  look  of  apple-blooms, 
And  you,  and  me,  and  May  ! 

For  long  between  us  there  had  hung 
The  mist  of  love's  young  doubt  ; 

Sweet,  shy,  uncertain,  all  the  world 
Of  trust  and  May  burst  out. 

I  wore  the  flowers  in  my  hair, 
Their  color  on  my  dress  ; 


APPLE-BLOSSOMS. 

Dear  Love !    whenever  apples  bloom 
In  Heaven,  do  they  bless 

Your  heart  with  memories  so  small, 

So  strong,  so  cruel-glad? 
If  ever  apples  bloom  in  Heaven, 

I  wonder  are  you  sad  ? 

Heart!  yield  thee  up  thy  fruitless  quest 

Beneath  the  apple-tree; 
Youth  comes  but  once,  love  only  once, 

And  May  but  once  to  thee! 


RAIN. 

WHAT  can  the  brown  earth  do, 
Drenched  and  dripping  through 
To  the  heart,  and  dazzled  by  the  sight 

Of  the  light 
That  cometh  after  rain  ? 

What  can  the  hurt  life  do, 
Healing  through  and  through, 
Caught  and  captured  by  the  slow  increase 

Of  the  peace 
That  cometh  after  pain  ? 


RAIN.  29 

I  would  not  miss  the  flower 
Budded  in  the  shower 
That  lives  to  lighten  all  the  wealthy  scene 

Where  rain  has  been, 
That  blossoms  after  pain  ! 


PETRONILLA. 

OF  Peter's  daughter,  it  is  said,  men  told, 
While  yet  she  breathed,  a  tale  as  sad.  as  life, 
As  sweet  as  death ;   which,  now  she  sleeps,  has 

lent 

The  borrower  Time  its  lighter  tints,  and  holds 
Only  the  shadowed  outline  of  a  grief 
Before  our  eyes. 

Thus  much  remains.     She  lived, 
Yet  lived   not ;    breathed,   yet   stifled ;    ate,  but 

starved ; 
The  ears  of  life  she  had,  but  heard  not ;   eyes, 


«   PETRONILLA.  31 

But  saw  not ;  hands,  but  handled  neither  bud 
Nor  fruit  of  joy  :   for  the  great  word  of  God, 
In  some  dim  crevice  of  eternal  thought 
Which  he  called  Petronilla,  had  gone  forth 
Against  her — for  her — call  it  what  we  may, 
And,  bending  to  his  will  unerringly, 
As  bends  the  golden  feather  of  the  grain 
Before  the  footsteps  of  the  mailed  west-wind, 
Since  childhood  she  had  lain  upon  her  bed 
In    peace    and    pain,   nor   had    ever    raised    her 

body 

Once  to  its  young  lithe  length,  to  view  the  dawn 
Of  all  her  young  lithe  years,  nor  had  once  laid 
Her  little  feverish  feet  upon  the  face 
Of    the    cool,    mocking,    steadfast    floor    which 

laughed 


32  PETRONILLA. 

When  other  girls,  with  other  thinking  done 
Some  time  in  Heaven  about  their  happy  names, — 
Set  like  a  song  about  their  happy  names,  — 
Tripped  on  it  like  a  trill. 

As  one  may  see 

Upon  the  hushed  lips  of  a  Sabbath-day 
A  church  door  sliding  softly  as  a  smile, 
To  let  the  solemn  summer  sunshine  in 
To  dream  upon,  but  neither  guess  nor  tell 
The  dusky  week-day  secrets  which  the  dome 
Whispers  the  darkened  niches  and  the  nave, 
Where  in  the  purple  silence  which  they  love 
The  marble  angels  sleep,  or  weep,  or  sing, 
(Who  knoweth  what  they  do  on  Monday  morn 
ings  ?) 
So  slides  the  tale  on  Petronilla,  left 


PETRONILLA.  33 

Upon  a  certain  dull,  wan  day  alone, 
Her  face  turned  on  her  pillow  to  the  room 
Wherein  the  wise  and  faithful  met  (for  faith 
With    wisdom    married    then  ;    none    forbid    the 

banns 

Within  the  temple  of  the  hearts  of  men), 
To  break  their  bread  with  Peter,  and  discourse 
Of  all  the  sacred,  secret  things  ;   the  hopes, 
The  fears,  the  solemn  ecstasies,  and  dreams, 
And  deeds,  which  held  life  in  the  arms  of  death, 
For  the  first  namers  of  the  name  of  Christ. 
And  lying  there,  at  rest,  adream,  asleep, 
She  scarce  could  tell  her  state,  so  dim  it  was, 
Such  lifeless  reflex  of  the  hueless  day, 
A  voice  struck  Petronilla, —  Peter's  voice, 

Solemn  and  mighty  as  a  lonely  wave 

2*  c 


34  PETRONILLA. 

Upon  an  untrod  shore.     "  O  brethren,  hark  ! 
Ye  know  not  what  ye  say  ;  your  minds  are  dark. 
O  ye  of  little  faith,  I  show  you  then ! 
By  his   great  power   I  show  you.     Watch    with 

me, 

For  he  is  here.     Abase  your  heads  ;  he  lives  ; 
It  is  his  will  I  do  his  will,  and  show 
The  power  of  God  in  that  he  once  hath  lived 
And  died,  but  lives  to  work  his  glory  still,  — 
To  work  his  wish,  unargued,  undisturbed, 
Without  resistance  or  appeal  or  blame, 
Upon  the  creature  which  his  hands  have  made. 
Were  it  his  choice  to  raise  yon  maiden  now 
From  out  the  coffin  of  her  bed,  and  bid 
Her  step,  —  or  live  ;  it  means  the  same,  —  what 

then  ? 


PETRONILLA.  35 

Is  that  too  much  for  him  to  do  ?     What  now  ? 
Is   that   too    hard  ?     Increase    your    faith !     Be 
hold  !  " 

Awake,  asleep,  adream,  or  all,  or  none, 
What  ailed  Petronilla?     The  world  spun 
Like  a  frail  spindle  in  a  woman's  hands. 
And  all  her  breath  went  from  her,  and  her  sight, 
At  the  faint  fancy  of  her  father,  still, 
Alone,  alight  within  the  room  ;  as  solemn 
And  sad  and  glad  as  had  a  vision  been 
Of  a  choice  taper  set  to  spend  itself, 
And  blaze  and  waste  upon  an  altar's  brow, 
Not   taught   nor   knowing   wherefore,  —  burning 

out, 
Since  that  's  a  taper's  nature,  and  enough. 


36  PETRONILLA. 

And  faint  the  fancy  of  his  face,  if  his 

It  were.     And  faint  the  fancy  of  his  voice, 

Which  lost  its  way,  so  Petronilla  thought, 

Or  twice  or  thrice,  before  it  bridged  the  bit 

Of  fanciful,  faint  sunlight  which  crawled  in 

Between  his  pitying,  awful  face  and  hers, 

And  "  Petronilla,"  sighing  softly,  said, 

And  "  Petronilla  !  "  ringing  cried,  "  Arise  ! 

"  Now,  in  the  name  of  Christ  who  lived  for  thee, 

I  bid  thee  live,  and  rise,  and  walk  !  " 

Erect, 

Unaided,  with  a  step  of  steel,  she  rose. 
What    should   she  do   but   rise  ?     And   walked  ; 

how  else  ? 

For  God  had  said  it,  sent  it,  dropped  it  down, 
The  sweetest,  faintest  fancy  of  her  life. 


PETRONILLA.  37 

And  fancying  faintly  how  her  feet  dropped  far 
Below  the  dizzy  dancing  of  her  eyes, 
Adown  the  listening  floor  ;    and  fancying 
How  all  the  rising  winds  crept  mutely  up 
The  court,  and  put  their  arms  around  her  neck 
For  joy  ;  and  how  for  joy  the  sun  broke  through 
The  visor  which  the  envious  day  had  held 
Across  his  happy  face,  and  kissed  her  hair  ; 
And  fancying  faintly  how  those  men  shrank  back, 
And  pulled  their  great  gray  beards  at  sight  of 

her, 

And  nodded,  as  becometh  holy  men, 
Approvingly,  at  wonders,  as  indeed 
They   'd   bade   her   walk   themselves,  —  so   mus 
ingly, 
As  she  had  been  a  fancy  of  herself, 


38  PETRONILLA. 

She  found  herself  live,  warm  and  young,  within 
The  borders  of  the  live,  warm  world. 

But  still, 

As  faintly  as  a  fancy  fell  the  voice 
Of  Peter :  "  Serve  us,  daughter,  at  the  board." 
And  dimly  as  a  fancy  served  she  them, 
And  sweetly  as  a  fancy  to  and  fro 
Across  the  gold  net  of  the  lightening  day 
She  passed  and  paused. 

Caught  in  its  meshes  fast  ; 
Tangled  into  the  happy  afternoon, 
Tangled  into  the  sense  of  life  and  youth, 
Blind  with  the  sense  of  motion,  leap  of  health, 
And  wilderness  of  undiscovered  joy, 
Stood  Petronilla.     Down  from  out  her  hand 
A  little  platter  dropped,  and  down  upon 


PETRONILLA.  39 

Her  hands  her  face  dropped,  broken  like  the  ware 
Of  earth  that  sprinkled  all  the  startled  floor, 
And  down  upon  her  knees  her  face  and  hands 
Fell,  clinging  to  each  other ;  crouching  there 
At  Peter's  feet,  —  her  father's  feet,  —  she  gave 
One  little,  little  longing  cry,  —  no  more  ; 
And  like  the  fancy  of  a  cry,  —  so  faint ; 
And  like  the  angel  of  a  cry,  —  so  brave. 
For  Peter's  face  had  lifted  like  the  heavens, 
Above  the  presence  of  the  holy  men, 
Above  the  maiden  serving  in  the  sun, 
Above  —  God   help  him  !  —  God's   own  princely 

gift, 

The  pity  which  a  father  bears  his  child. 
And  far  and  calm  as  heaven  is  shone  his  smile, 
And  far  and  still  as  heaven  is  fell  his  voice, 


40  PETRONILLA. 

Yet  held  a  cadence  like  a  prisoned  pain, 
As  one  twice- wrecked  upon  the  same  bare  shore. 
"  The  Lord  hath  chosen  Petronilla.     Hearken  ! 
Whom   he   will   choose,   he   chooseth :    some   to 

honor, 

Some  to  dishonor  ;  this  to  be  and  bear, 
And  that  to  dare  and  do  ;  these  bear  his  swords, 
And  these  his  chains.     Nay,  but,  O  man !  what 

then  ? 
Who   art   thou    that   shalt   mould   the   mood   of 

God, 

Or  search  his  meaning,  or  defy  his  will  ? 
On  Petronilla  he  will  work  his  power. 
O,  what  is  Petronilla  ?     What  am  I  ? 
Nay,  nay,  my  child,  I  tremble  ;  this  is  wrong. 
Thou  moanest ;  that  is  strange,  for  he  is  here 


PETRONILLA.  4! 

To  show  his  glory  on  thy  young,  bent  head, 
And  little  smile  and  hands.     O,  lift  them  up 
Before  him,  while  I  speak  the  word  he  sent. 
For,  by  the  love  of  him  who  died  for  thee, 
Commandment  comes  ;  and  I  must  bid  thee  turn 
And  lay  thee  down  upon  thy  patient  bed 
Again  ;  for  what  am  I,  and  what  art  thou  ? 
So  turn  and  lay  thee  down.     Behold  it,  Lord  ! 
'T  is  finished,  Master  !     Petronilla,  go. 
God's  hand  is  on  thee,  O  my  child  ;  God's  grace 
Go  with  thee.     Brethren,  see !     His  will  is  done, 
And  shall  be  done  upon  us  evermore." 
And  there  the  wonder  fell,  so  runs  the  tale  ; 
For  Petronilla  turned  her  dumb  as  death, 
And  laid  her  down  upon  her  empty  bed, 
Where  a  long  sunbeam  warm  as  life  had  curled  ; 


42  PETRONILLA. 

And  crept  within  it,  white  as  sifted  snow, 
Nor  ever  raised  her  slender  length  again, 
Nor  ever  dropped  her  foot  upon  the  floor, 
Nor  ever  felt  the  winds  from  up  the  court 
Weave  arms  about  her  neck ;  nor  ever  found 
Herself  entangled  more  within  the  gold 
Warp  of  the  moving,  merry  world  ;  nor  once 
Again  knew  even  the  pallid  happiness 
Which  comes  of  serving  holy  men  ;  nor  felt 
The  leap  of  life  within  her  shrivelled  veins. 
And  there  the  legend  breaks  :  what  good  or  ill 
Struck  arms  or  folded  wings  about  the  heart 
Of  Petronilla  ;  how  fared  she,  prisoned 
Behind  the  bars  of  that  untragic  woe, 
The  bearing  of  an  old  familiar  fate 
From  which  long  use  has  rubbed  the  gilding  out, 


PETRONILLA.  43 

To  which  the  wonted  hours  have  set  themselves 
So  sorely  they  can  neither  smile  nor  sigh 
To  think  of  it,  but  only  drop  the  lids 
Across  their  leaden  eyes  for  wondering 
What  a  glad  chance  an  unworn  grief  must  be  ; 
What  solemn  musings  marshalled  in  his  mind 
Who   was   the    Rock    on    which    Christ   built   a 

church 

Of  such  as  love  nor  son  nor  daughter  more 
Than  him,  —  we   know  not ;    rude   our    guesses 

are, 

And  rough ;  and  mar  the  shady,  sacred  hush 
Which  the  raised  fingers  of  the  years  enforce. 

The  story  slips,  —  an  echo  like  the  voice 
Of  far-off,  falling  water  yet  unseen  ; 


44  PETRONILLA. 

A  puzzle,  like  our  next-door  neighbor's  life  ; 

A  lesson  which  an  angel  on  the  wing 

Might  drop,  but  linger  not  to  read  to  us, 

Or  mark  the  stint.     Each  heart  steals  forth  alone 

A  little  after  twilight,  and  takes  home 

The  leaf,  the  line,  appointed  unto  it. 


TWO    IPS. 

IF  it  might  only  be 
That  in  the  singing  sea, 
The  living,  lighted  sea, 
There  were  a  place  for  you  to  creep 
Away,  among  the  tinted  weeds,  and  sleep, 
A  cradled,  curtained  place  for  you 
To  take  the  happy  rest  for  two  ! 

And  then  if  it  might  be 

Appointed  unto  me 

(God  knows  how  sweet  to  me !) 


46  TWO  IFS. 

To  plunge  into  the  sharp  surprise 
Of  burning  battle's  blood  and  dust  and  cries, 
And  face  the  hottest  fire  for  you, 
And  fight  the  bitter  fight  for  two! 


A   QUESTION. 

IF  there  be  a  land 
Where  our  longings  stand, 
Like  angels  strong  and  sweet 
With  wings  at  head  and  feet, 
Released  from  their  long  ward 
And  durance,  put  on  guard 
For  strength  and  meetness, 
All  the  stronger  for  their  sweetness, 
All  the  sweeter  for  their  strength,  — 
In  such  a  land  at  length, 
I  wonder,  would  it  ever  be 
That  I  could  give  a  little  love  to  thee  ? 


48  A    QUESTION. 

If  in  such  a  place 
I  should  see  a  face 
Seen  now  so  long  ago 
That  I  should  scarcely  know 
If  it  might  be  the  same  ; 
And  if  one  spoke  my  name, 

However  faintly, 

In  the  old  way,  —  stealing  saintly, 
Like  a  chant  upon  my  ear, — 
In  such  a  place  I  fear 
Me,  it  could  never,  never  be 
That  thou  couldst  have  a  little  love  from  me. 


IN    TEETH    OF    FATE. 

LET  us  sit  in  our  darkening  weather, 
Dear  Heart !    alone  together 

For  a  while, 
And  talk  it  all  over  bravely. 

Nay,  lift  me  not  up  that  white,  sweet  smile  ; 

We  '11  face  what  is  coming  bravely  or  gravely, 

But  I  cannot  bear  that  smile. 

No,  I  did  not  say  the  dying, 
But  those  departing,  flying 
Far  away, 


50  IN   TEETH   OF   FATE.       . 

Smile  so.     Come  a  little  nearer  ! 

I  can  better  think  what  I  had  to  say. 
My  darling,  my  darling  !  stay  nearer,  be  dearer ! 

We  will  talk  some  other  day. 


"DID    YOU   SPEAK?" 

I  SAW  the  prettiest  picture 

Through  a  garden  fence  to-day, 

Where  the  lilies   look  like  angels 
'Just  let  out  to  play, 

And  the  roses  laugh  to  see  them 
All  the  sweet  June  day. 

Through  a  hole  behind  the  woodbine, 

Just  large  enough  to  see 
(By  begging  the  lilies'   pardon) 

Without  his  seeing  me, 


52  "DID  YOU  SPEAK?" 

My  neighbor's  boy,  and  Pharaoh, 
The  finest  dog  you  '11  see, 

If  you  search  from  Maine  to  Georgia, 

For  a  dog  of  kingly  air, 
And  the  tolerant,  high-bred  patience 

The  great  St.  Bernards  wear, 
And  the  sense  of  lofty  courtesy 

In  breathing  common  air. 

I  called  the  child's  name,  —  "  Franko  !  " 
Hands  up  to  shield  my  eyes 

From  the  jealous  roses,  —  "  Franko  !  " 
A  burst  of  bright  surprise 

Transfixed  the  little  fellow 
With  wide,  bewildered  eyes. 


"DID  YOU  SPEAK?"  53 

"  Franko  !  "     Ah,  the  mystery  ! 

Up  and  down,  around, 
Looks  Franko,  searching  gravely 

Sky  and  trees  and  ground, 
Wise  wrinkles  on  the  eyebrows  ! 

Studying  the  sound. 

"O  Franko!"     Puzzled  Franko! 

The  lilies  will  not  tell  ; 
The  roses  shake  with  laughter, 

But  keep  the  secret  well  ; 
The  woodbine  nods  importantly. 

"  Who  spoke  ?  "  cried  Franko.     «  Tell !  " 

The  trees  do  not  speak  English  ; 
The  calm  great  sky  is  dumb  ; 


54  "DID    YOU    SPEAK  ?" 

The  yard  and  street  are  silent ; 

The  old  board-fence  is  mum  ; 
Pharaoh  lifts  his  head,  but,  ah  ! 

Pharaoh  too  is  dumb. 

Grave  wrinkles  on  his  eyebrows, 

Hand  upon  his  knee, 
Head  bared  for  close  reflection, 

Lighted  curls  blown  free, — 
The  child's  soul  to  the  brute's  soul 

Goes  out  earnestly. 

From  the  child's  eyes  to  the  brutes  eyes, 

And  earnestly  and  slow, 
The  child's  young  voice  falls  on  my  ear 

"  Did  you  speak,  Pharaoh  ?  " 


"DID    YOU    SPEAK  ?"  55 

The  bright  thought  growing  on  him,  — 
"  Did  you  speak,  Pharaoh  ?  " 

I  can  but  think  if  Franko 

Would  teach  us  all  his  way 
Of  listening  and  trusting,  — 

The  wise,  wise  Franko  way  !  — 
The  world  would  learn  some  summer 

To  hear  what  dumb  things  say. 


BROKEN    RHYTHM. 

MY  oars  keep  time  to  half  a  rhyme, 
That  slips  and  slides  away  from  me. 

Across  my  mind,  like  idle  wind, 
A  lost  thought  beateth  lazily. 

Adream,  afloat,  my  little  boat 
And  I  alone  steal  out  to  sea. 

One  vanished  year,  O  Lost  and  Dear  ! 
You  rowed  the  little  boat  for  me. 

Ah,  who  can  sing  of  anything 
With  none  to  listen  lovingly? 

Or  who  can  time  the  oars  to  rhyme 
When  left  to  row  alone  to  sea  ? 


ON    THE   BRIDGE   OF   SIGHS. 

IT  chanceth  once  to  every  soul, 

Within  a  narrow  hour  of  doubt  and  dole, 

Upon  Life's  Bridge  of  Sighs  to  stand, 
"A  palace  and  a  prison  on* each  hand." 

• 
O  palace  of  the  rose-heart's  hue  ! 

How  like  a  flower  the  warm  light  falls  from  you ! 

O  prison  with  the  hollow  eyes  ! 
Beneath  your  stony  stare  no  flowers  arise. 
3* 


58  ON    THE    BRIDGE    OF    SIGHS. 

O  palace  of  the  rose-sweet  sin ! 

How  safe  the  heart  that  does  not  enter  in ! 

O  blessed  prison-walls !  how  true 

The  freedom  of  the  soul  that  chooseth  you  ! 


HIDE-AND-GO-SEEK. 

HAPPINESS  has  found  me  out, 

Found  me  out  at  last ! 
O,  she  's  dogged  me  round  about ; 
All  my  hurrying  life  she  's  chased  me, 
Treading  hard  and  hot  she  's  raced  me, 
Almost  touched  me,  all  but  faced  me,  — 

Here  she  is,  at  last  ! 

Wary  were  you,  Happiness  ! 

Patient  to  the  last  ! 
From  your  thankless  business 


6<D  HIDE-AND-GO-SEEK. 

Laggard  Time  has  come  to  free  you. 
Always  driven  by  Fate  to  flee  you, 
Never  did  I  think  to  see  you 
Track  me  down  at  last ! 


GIVING  OF  THANKS. 

DEEP  in  the  brooding  shadow  of  thy  wing, 

Hidden  and  hushed  and  harbored  here, 
My  soul  for  very  stillness  cannot  sing  ; 

A  word  would  rend  the  silence,  and  a  tear 
Of  joy  affront  the  sense  of  cool  and  dark  and  rest. 

Unto  the  music  of  thine  endless  calm 

Sing  thou  then  for  me !     Thy  glad  child 
Sheltered  and   saved,  wrapped  all  about   from 

harm, 

Happy  to  be  helpless,  —  and  thy  child  ; 
Can  only  turn  and  sleep  within  the  blessed  rest, 


62  GIVING   OF    THANKS. 

Can  only  drop  the  gifts  which  thou  hast  given 

Back  in  thy  lavish  hand.     O  wealth 
Of  fulness  !    that  for  life,  for  love,  for  Heaven, 

For  thyself,  thou  shouldst  thank  thyself 
In  me;   and  leave   me   mute   and  motionless, — 
at  rest. 


FEELING   THE  WAY. 

FEELING  the  way,  —  and  all  the  way  up  hill ; 
But  on  the  open  summit,  calm  and  still, 
The  feet  of  Christ  are  planted ;  and  they  stand 
In  view  of  all  the  quiet  land. 

Feeling  the  way,  —  and  though  the  way  is  dark, 
The  eyelids  of  the  morning  yet  shall  mark 
Against  the  East  the  shining  of  his  face, 
At  peace  upon  the  lighted  place. 

Feeling  the  way,  —  and  if  the  way  is  cold, 
What  matter  ?  —  since  upon  the  fields  of  gold 
His  breath  is  melting  ;  and  the  warm  winds  sing 
While  rocking  summer  days  for  him. 


LEARNING  TO   PRAY. 

MY  inmost  soul,  O  Lord,  to  thee 

Leans  like  a  growing  flower 
Unto  the  light.     I  do  not  know 

The  day  nor  blessed  hour 
When  that  deep-rooted,  daring  growth 

We  call  the  heart's  desire 
Shall  burst  and  blossom  to  a  prayer 

Within  the  sacred  fire 
Of  thy  great  patience  ;  grow  so  pure, 

So  still,  so  sweet  a  thing 
As  perfect  prayer  must  surely  be. 

And  yet  my  heart  will  sing 


LEARNING    TO    PRAY.  65 

Because  thou  seem'st  sometimes  so  near. 

Close-present  God !  to  me, 
It  seems  I  could  not  have  a  wish 

That  was  not  shared  by  thee  ; 
It  seems  I  cannot  be  afraid 

To  speak  my  longings  out, 
So  tenderly  thy  gathering  love 

Enfolds  me  round  about  ; 
It  seems  as  if  my  heart  would  break, 

H 

If,  living  on  the  light 
I  should  not  lift  to  thee  at  last 

A  bud  of  flawless  white. 
And  yet,   O  helpless  heart!  how  sweet 

To  grow,  and  bud,  and  say  : 
The  flower,  however  marred  or  wan, 

Shall  not  be  cast  away. 

E 


WHAT   THE   SHORE   SAYS   TO  THE   SEA. 

EBB-TIDE. 

OLD,  old, 
Centuries  old, 

How  old  a  love  is,  who  can  say  ? 
It  is  an  ancient  day 

Since  thou  and  I  wert  wed. 

•M 

The  orbed  sky  bent  down, 
A  fiery,  scornful  crown, 
Not  craven  pale  as  now, 
Live-red  to  bind  thy  brow, 
Crested  red  and  lonely 

Only 
To  coronet  thy  head. 


WHAT    THE    SHORE    SAYS    TO    THE    SEA.  6/ 

Thou,  I, 

Beneath  His  eye, 
Existed  solitary,  grand. 
O  only  life !  the  life  of  sea  and  land  ! 

All  puny  heritage 
Of  puny  love  and  loss. 
Came  mimic  after  us ; 
Our  mighty  wedlock  meant 
More  than  their  supplement. 
Ere  these,  we  perfect  were, 

And  are, 
In  pain  and  privilege. 

My  own  true-hearted  ! 
Since  first  He  parted 
Thee  from  me, 


68  WHAT    THE    SHORE    SAYS    TO    THE    SEA. 

Behold  and  see 
How  dreary,  mute, 
Bound  hand  and  foot, 
Stretched,  starved,  I  lie ! 
I  hear  thee  stepping  by, 
And  weep  to  see 
Thee  yearn  to  me. 
Bound  by  an  awful  Will 
Forever  and  forever  thou  dost  move 
An  awful  errand  on. 

O  Love ! 

Steal  up  and  say,  —  is  there  below,  above  ; 
In  height  or  depth,  or  choice  or  unison, 
Of  woes  a  woe  like  mine,  — 
To  lie  so  near  to  thine, 

And  yet  forever  and  forever  to  lie  still ! 


WHAT   THE   SEA   SAYS  TO  THE  SHORE. 

FLOOD-TIDE. 

O  SWEET  ! 
I  kiss  thy  feet. 
It  is  permitted  me 
So  much  to  keep  of  thee, 
So  much  to  give  to  thee. 

Reverently 

I  touch  thy  dusky  garments'  hem. 
Thy  dazzling  feet  lie  bare ; 
But  now  the  moonlit  air, 
In  hurrying  by,  did  gaze  at  them. 


70          WHAT    THE    SEA   SAYS    TO   THE    SHORE. 

Who  can  guess 
The  temper  of  a  love  denied  ? 
See  !    to  my  lips  I  press,  — 
I  press  and  hide 
Thy  sweet 
Sad  feet, 
And  cover  them  from  sight  of  all  the  world. 

Till  thou  and  I  were  riven  apart, 
Never  was  it  known 

By  any  one 

That  storms  could  tear  an  ocean's  heart. 
Nor  shall  it  be  again 
That  storms  can  cause  an  ocean  pain. 

But  when  He  said : 
"  No  farther,  thus  far,  shalt  thou  go  ; 


WHAT    THE    SEA    SAYS    TO    THE    SHORE. 

And  here, 

In  fear, 

Shall  thy  proud  waves  be  stayed,"  — 
Raging,  rebel,  and  afraid, 
What  could  shore  or  ocean  do  ? 

Fling  .down  thy  long  loose  hair 

For  a  little  share 
Of  the  little  kiss  I  still  may  bring  to  thee. 

O  Love !    turn  unto  me ! 
The  hours  are  short  that  I  may  be 

Rich  though  so  scantily, 
Blest  although  so  broken-hearted. 
Sweet  my  Love  !   when  we  are  parted, 
When  unheard  orders  bid  me  go 
Obedient  to  an  unknown  Will, 


72  WHAT   THE    SEA    SAYS   TO   THE    SHORE. 

The  pain  of  pains  selects  me  so, 

That  I  must  go,  and  thou  lie  still. 
While  yet  my  lips  may  hunger  near  thy  feet, 
Turn  to  me,  Sweet ! 


ATALANTA. 

ATALANTA  and  I  know  better  ! 
Distrust  you  the  fable  of  old, 
Of  the  envious  Goddess  who  set  her 
On  to  defeat  by  tempting  her  soul 

With  the  wily  bright  roll 
Of  an  apple  of  treacherous  gold. 

Distrust  the  story  which  tells  you 
She  loitered  with  willing,  shy  feet. 
A  doubt  on  the  myth  which  compels  you 
Ever  to  dream  that  she  lingered  to  lose 
4 


74  ATALANTA. 

In  the  race,  or  to  choose 
In  Love's  contest  an  easy  defeat ! 

She  never  could  linger,  no,  never  ! 

To  help  poor  Hippomenes  by ! 

Fleet-footed,  stern-hearted,  forever, 

She  keeps  to  the  goal.     Let  him  win  if  he  can  ! 

If  he  be  not  the  man 
Born  for  winning,  why  then  let  him  die ! 

The  fable  was  twisted !     I  plant  a 
Firm  foot  of  assurance  on  this. 
Some  woman  —  but  not  Atalanta  — 
Lingered  to  lose;  and  stooped  to  enhance 

By  a  sweet  trick  the  chance 
Of  being  defeated  by  bliss  ! 


A   LETTER. 

Two  things  love  can  do, 

Only  two  : 

Can  distrust,  or  can  believe  ; 
It  can  die,  or  it  can  live, 
There  is  no  syncope 
Possible  to  love  or  me. 

Go  your  ways  ! 

Two  things  you  can  do, 

Only  two  : 

Be  the  thing  you  used  to  be, 
Or  be  nothing  more  to  me. 


A    LETTER. 

I  can  but  joy  or  grieve, 
Can  no  more  than  die  or  live. 
Go  your  ways  ! 

So  far  I  wrote,  my  darling,  drearily, 
But  now  my  sad  pen  falls  down  wearily 
From  out  my  trembling  hand. 

I  did  not,  do  not,  cannot  mean  it,  Dear! 
Come  life  or  death,  joy,  grief,  or  hope,  or  fear, 
I  bless  you  where  I  stand ! 

I  bless  you  where  I  stand,  excusing  you, 
No  speech  nor  language  for  accusing  you 
My  laggard  lips  can  learn. 


A    LETTER.  77 

To  you  —  be  what  you  are,  or  can,  to  me,  — 
To  you  or  blessedly  or  fatefully 
My  heart  must  turn ! 


AN   AUTUMN   VIOLET. 

I  SAW  a  miracle  to-day ! 
Where  the  September  sunshine  lay 
Languidly  as  a  lost  desire 
Upon  a  sumach's  fading  fire, 
Where  calm  some  pallid  asters  trod, 
Indifferent,  past  a  golden-rod, 
Beside  a  gray-haired  thistle  set,  — 
A  perfect  purple  violet 

• 

I  wonder  what  it  were  to  miss 

The  life  of  spring,  and  live  like  this  ? 


AN    AUTUMN    VIOLET.  79 

To  bloom  so  lone,  to  bloom  so  late, 
And  were  it  worth  the  while  to  wait 
So  long  for  such  a  little  day  ? 
And  were  it  not  a  better  way 
Never,  indeed,  (worse  might  befall,) 
To  be  a  violet  at  all? 

So  lonely  when  the  spring  was  gone, 
So  calm  when  autumn  splendors  shone, 
So  peaceful  midst  the  blazing  flowers, 
So  blessed  through  the  golden  hours, 
So  might  have  bloomed  my  love  for  thee. 
It  is  not,  and  it  cannot  be,  — 
It  cannot,  must  not  be,  —  and  yet, 
I  picked  for  thee  the  violet. 


DESERTED  NESTS. 

I  'D  rather  see  an  empty  bough, — 
A  dreary,  weary  bough  that  hung 
As  boughs  will  hang  within  whose  arms 
No  mated  birds  had  ever  sung ; 

Far  rather  than  to  see  or  touch 
The  sadness  of  an  empty  nest 
Where  joy  has  been  but  is  not  now, 
Where  love  has  been  but  is  not  blest. 

There  is  no  sadness  in  the  world, 
No  other  like  it  here  or  there,— 
The  sadness  of  deserted  homes 
In  nests,  or  hearts,  or  anywhere. 


THE    DIFFERENCE. 

THE  breakers  warned  them  from  the  sea, 
The  late  light  lured  them  up  the  shore 

The  jewels  of  the  golden-rod 

Blazed  deep  as  topaz  to  the  core  ; 

The  far  fields  watched  them  silently 

And  blessed  them  like  the  peace  of  God. 

"  If  we  could  always  walk,"  she  said, 
"As  now  we  're  walking  up  the  shore, 

I  think  how  happy  we  might  be ! 
To  walk  and  talk  forevermore, 

4*  F 


82  THE    DIFFERENCE. 

Without  a  care  without  a  dread, 
That  were  enough  for  you  and  me!" 

"  O  cruel-calm  !    you  know,"  said  he, 

"  The  man  who  dares  to  spend  with  you 

An  hour  like"  this  on  sea  or  shore, 
Can  never  teach  his  fancy  to 

Practise  such  sweet  humility, 

Must  all  his  life  go  wanting  more!" 


CONGRATULATION. 

You  told  the  story  of  your  love ; 

I  heard  as  one  who  did  not  hear ; 
Across  the  opening  lips  of  hope 

Crept  the  slow  finger  of  a  fear. 

Against  the  kind  deceit  which  hides 
From  love's  beginning  all  love's  end, 

In  thoughtful  mood  I  boldly  lift 
The  honest  trouble  of  a  friend. 

You  Ve  chosen  thus:    not  thus,  indeed, 
I  would  have  .chosen  fate  for  you, 


84  CONGRATULATION. 

And  if  you  missed  the  possible 

And  for  the  sweet  had  lost  the  true  ; 

If  'neath  the  perfect  palm  of  love 

You  might  have  knelt,  —  in  kneeling,  blest,  — 
And  if  you  chose  instead  to  wear 

A  little  rose  upon  your  breast ; 

If,  for  the  tidal  wave  of  life 

Mistook  a  little  ripple  blue, 
While  fathoms  deep  below  your  line 

The  sea's  lost  treasures  sleep  for  you  ; 

Why,  then,   what  then  ?     You  've  only  missed 
A  wealth  your  calm  eyes  never  saw. 


CONGRATULATION.  85 

Be  fate  and  nature  kind  to  you, 
Yourself  unto  yourself  your  law  ! 

No  Moses  ever  part  for  you 

The  wonders  of  the  deep's  rich  gloom  ! 
Nor  ever  lead,  the  dry  sands  o'er, 

Into  the  long-lost  palm-land's  bloom  ! 

Ah  !  never,  never  may  you  know, 

For  little  waves  trip  merrily  ; 
And  never,  never  may  you  know, 

For  sweet  the  little  roses  be. 

And  should  my  doubts  and  dreams  be  both 
Blindfold,  as  dreams  and  doubts  may  be ; 


86  CONGRATULATION. 

Should  love's  unwisdom  truer  prove 
To  you  than  my  wise  fears  to  me ; 


Since  God's  own  purpose  over  ours 

Is  folded  softly  like  a  wing, 
And  love's  best  knowledge  to  love's  self 

Must  own,  I  know  not  anything ! 

Why  then  —  ah  !  then.     Go  you  his  ways, 
Not  mine.     His  is  the  summer  sea, 

On  which  the  little  waves  shall  trip ; 
And  his  the  little  roses  be. 

But  if  into  one  lot  there  came 
(As  into  one  I  haply  knew) 


CONGRATULATION. 

The  flower's  scent,  the  forest's  strength, 
The  depth's  reserve,  the  ripple's  hue  ; 

If  it  fell  out  to  Heaven's  mind 

To  give  one  both  the  sweet  and  true, 

Though  Heaven  asked  it  back  again,  — 
That  lost  lot  I  'd  not  change  with  you. 


GOOD-BY. 

GOD  be  with  you  !  through  my  losing 
And  my  grieving,  shall  I  say  ? 

Through  my  smiling  and  my  hoping, 
God  be  with  you,  friend,  to-day ! 

Somewhere,  on  a  Shore  of  Silver, 
(God  be  with  you  on  the  way  !) 

In  a  sunlight  sifted  richly 

From  a  thousand  skies  of  May, 

In  a  dream  of  June's  white  roses, 
In  a  chant  of  waters  low, 


GOOD-BY.  89 

In  a  glory  of  red  maples, 

A  hush  of  moonlight  upon  snow, 

• 

In  the  meanings  of  the  sunrise, 

In  the  heart  of  summer  rain, 
In  the  soul  of  purple  hazes, 

We  will  not  say  good  by  again. 

But  the  tears  dash  through  my  dreaming, 
And  the  thing  I  fain  would  say 

Falters  into  this,  —  this  only  : 
God  be  with  you  till  that  day! 


TWO    FACES. 

"  WOULD  I  could  see !  "  I  heard  one  say  but  now, 
"  The  strongest  woman  and  the  tenderest  man 
That  ever  God  had  dared  put  in  the  world  !  " 
And  I,  who  did  not  speak,  because  one  can 
Tell  out  one's  sweetest  secret  to  the  sky 
Sometimes  with  greater  ease  than  one  can  speak 
It  at  some  others  to  a  friend's  close  ear, 
Went  up  into  the  gallery  of  my  soul 
Silent  and  smiling  and  assured,  to  see 
Some  pictures  that  are  hung  there  on  the  wall, 
Whereat  my  soul  and  I  on  leisure  days 
Sit  gazing  and  sit  thirsting  by  ourselves. 


TWO    FACES.  91 

And  one  there  is  that  looketh  down  to  me 
Less  like  a  face  than  like  a  star,  for  when 
With  closed  eyes  I  would  think  what  it  is  like 
I  only  can  remember  that  it  shines. 
But  when  I  turn  again  to  con  and  learn 
Its  lineaments  like  a  lesson  in  my  thought, 
The  forehead  has  the  look  that  marble  has 
When  it  has  drawn  the  sunlight  to  its  heart. 
And  if  St.  John  had  fought  the  Dragon,  then 
He  might  have  had  perhaps  such  eyes  as  that 
(But  still  I  do  not  tell  you  what  the  eyes 
Are  like,  nor  can  I,  and  I  am  not  sure, 
Indeed,  that  I  should  tell  you  if  I  could). 
O,  straight  they  look  the  world  into  the  face ! 
And  never  have  they  dropped  before  its  gaze, 
And  never  sunk  they  down  abashed,  to  hide 


Q2  TWO    FACES. 

A  glance  of  which  their  own  light  was  ashamed. 
And  if  an  unclean  thing  had  chanced  to  step 
Into  the  presence  of  such  eyes,  pierced,  scorched, 
It  would  have  shrunk  before  their  stabs,  but  ere 
It  could  have  risen  to  flee,  it  would  have  dropped, 
And  cowered  moaning  in  the  dust,  because 
It  felt  itself  a  thing  they  pitied  so ! 
And  then  the  mouth !  —  I  never  saw  a  mouth, 
Another  one,  that  seemed  to  think  and  feel 
At  once  like  this.     If  haply  lips  like  these 
Had    found  a  word   for  which    the  whole    round 

earth 

Were  waiting,  while  they  spoke  the  word,  I  think 
They  'd  quiver  most  because  upon  that  day 
The  woman  that  they  loved  had   touched    them, 

—  said, 


TWO    FACES.  93 

"  Go    speak,   my  lips,  and    make    me  proud ! "  — 

the  most 
For  that  than  for  the  worth  of  either  work  or  world. 

And  one  there  is  (across  the  gallery's  width 

This  picture  hangs),  a  graver  face,  and  touched 

A  little  with  a  sadness  such  as  that 

Which  might  have  fallen  on  the  countenance 

Of  Esther  in  the  story,  when  she  left 

Her  throne  to  perish  for  her  people's  sake  ; 

The  sadness  of  a  soul  bound  fast  to  bear  — 

Whether  by  fate  or  choice  it  knoweth  not  — 

Within  itself  the  sorrows  of  a  race, 

A  kind,  to  which  it  has  no  gladder  tie 

Than  the  blind  old  mystery  of  kin  ;  urged  on 

By  something  in  its  nature  like  a  cry 


94  TWO    FACES. 

That  will  be  heard,  come  life,  come  death  !  to  lay 
Aside  the  crown,  the  robe  of  royalty, 
And  mediate,  a  suppliant,  for  its  own. 
If  she  perish,  she  must  perish  !  —  but  must  go. 
Though  she  perish,  let  her  perish  !  —  let  her  go. 
Soft  falls  the  hair  about  this  other  face, 
Leaving  a  shadow  like  a  shadow  thrown 
By  leafless  trees  upon  a  snow-drift's  brow, 
A  slender  shelter  for  the  dazzling  white. 
And  out  from  it  look  steady  eyes  that  hide 
Their  perfect  meaning  from  the  casual  gaze, 
And  out  from  it  there  leans  a  flying  smile, 
As  one  smiles  turning  slowly  from  the  page 
In  which  his  heart  is  left  to  hear 
The  sweetest  interruption  in  the  world 
More  languidly  than  lovingly.     I  think 


TWO    FACES.  95 

You  'd  never  pause  to  speculate  or  guess 

Which  interruption  were  the  dearer  fret 

To  her,  but  only  what  the  lesson  was 

O'er  which  she  bent,  and  only  wonder  on 

If  Esther  had  a  smile  like  that  ;  and  if 

Her  people,  when  they  saw  it,  understood 

The  half  of  it  ;  and  if  the.  King  will  hold, 

As  did  Ahasuerus  in  the  time 

Of  old,  his  sceptre  out,  and  ever  call 

This  unqueened  Queen  in  triumph  to  her  throne. 

And  if  there  were  on  earth  a  tenderer  strength  ? 
Or  if  there  were  a  stronger  tenderness  ? 
What  matters  it  to  me  ?  for  now  behold  ! 
That  gallery  in  my  longing  soul  is  full, 
And  God  himself  came  up  and  shut  the  door. 


LAND-BOUND. 

ALL  the  day  the  light  lies  dreaming,  dreaming, 

Quietly  on  the  lea. 
All  the  day  the  ships  go  sailing,  sailing, 

Over  an  unseen  sea. 

Sentient,  strong,  the  hill  lies  couching,  crawling, 

Pressed  close  against  the  sky, 
Pierced  by  lances  quivering,  sharp,  unerring,  — 

The  thin  masts  drifting  by. 

All  the  night  the  breakers,  distant,  daring, 
Sing  straight  a  solemn  song  ; 


LAND-EOUND.  97 

Day  and  night  from  unguessed  ocean  greatness 
Great  winds  are  borne  along. 

Night  and  day  my  eyes  are  gazing,  straining, 

Filled  full  of  land-bound  tears. 
My  land-bound  heart  is  full  of  little  sorrows 

And  full  of  little  fears. 

O  happy  souls  !  that  soft  go  sailing,  sailing, 

Over  an  unknown  sea, 
Send  some  signal  of  your  wafting,  wandering, 

Across  the  hills  to  me  ! 

Across  the  cruel  hills,  that  stern  and  steadfast 

Sever  you  and  me, 
Tell  me  sometimes  of  your  peaceful,  blessed 

Life  upon  the  sea ! 


A    MESSAGE. 

WAS  there  ever  message  sweeter 

Than  that  one  from  Malvern  Hill, 
From  a  grim  old  fellow  —  you  remember? 

Dying  in  the  dark  at  Malvern  Hill. 
With  his  rough  face  turned  a  little, 

On  a  heap  of  scarlet  sand, 
They  found  him,  just  within  the  thicket, 

With  a  picture  in  his  hand,  — 

With  a  stained  and  crumpled  picture 

Of  a  woman's  aged  face  ; 
Yet  there  seemed  to  leap  a  wild  entreaty, 

Young  and  living  —  tender  —  from  the  face 


A    MESSAGE.  99 

When  they  flashed  the  lantern  on  it, 

Gilding  all  the  purple  shade, 
And  stooped  to  raise  him  softly,  — 

"  That 's  my  mother,  sir,"  he  said. 

"  Tell  her  "  —  but  he  wandered,  slipping 

Into  tangled  words  and  cries, — 
Something  about  Mac  and  Hooker, 

Something  dropping  through  the  cries 
About  the  kitten  by  the  fire, 

And  mother's  cranberry-pies  ;  and  there 
The  words  fell,  and  an  utter 

Silence  brooded  in  the  air. 

Just  as  he  was  drifting  from  them, 
Out  into  the  dark,  alone, 


IOO  A    MESSAGE. 

(Poor  old  mother,  waiting  for  your  message, 
Waiting  with  the  kitten,  all  alone  !) 

Through  the  hush  his  voice  broke,  —  "  Tell  her 
Thank  you,  Doctor  —  when  you  can, 

Tell  her  that  I  kissed  her  picture,  * 
And  wished  I  'd  been  a  better  man." 

Ah,  I  wonder  if  the  red  feet 

Of  departed  battle-hours 
May  not  leave  for  us  their  searching 

Message  from  those  distant  hours. 
Sisters,  daughters,  mothers,   think  you, 

Would  your  heroes  now  or  then, 
Dying,  kiss  your  pictured  faces, 

Wishing  they  'd  been  better  men  ? 


ESCAPED. 

JUST  before  you  came, 
There  stole  into  the  air 
A  thought  without  a  name. 

Such  a  pretty  thought ! 
Shy,  and  faint,  and  fair,  — 
I  wish  I  could  have  caught 

It  when  it  came, 

And  brought  it  unto  you  ; 

You  would  have  found  its  name  ! 


102  ESCAPED. 

But  when  I  turned,  and  would 
Have  gathered  it  for  you, 
And  clasped  it  where  it  stood, 

It  shook  me  out  a  pair 
Of  unseen  little  wings, 
And  vanished  in  the  air. 

Do  you  like  to  hear 
Such  foolish  little  things  ? 
Ah,  truly,  —  tell  me,  dear  ! 


SONG. 

COLDLY  the  night-wind  shivers  on  the  hill-top, 
Cold  crawls  the  pale-faced  fog  from  off  the  sea ; 
Tossed  by  the  one,  and  blinded  by  the  other, 
Turn  I  my  late  steps  longing  unto  thee  ! 

Warm  as  thy  glad  hand,  held  in  silence  towards 

me, 

Shines  out  thy  window's  light  across  the  lea  ; 
Warm  as  a  flower  waiting  for  the  south-wind, 
So  waits  thy  sweet  face  sheltered  there  for  me. 


IO4  SONG. 

Wild  as  the  gale,  and  like  the  mist  pervading 
The  soul  of  the  dark  night,  and  the  soul  of  me, 
Hoping  or  hopeless,  for  living  or  for  dying, 
Turn  I  my  late  love  forever  unto  thee  ! 


"OF   A   FAMILY   OF   REFORMERS." 

PUSH  the  bursting  buds  away, 

Throw  aside  the  ripened  roses, 
Hush  the  low- voiced  waters'  play, 
Where  the  weary  sun  reposes 

With  his  head  upon  his  hand, 
Grave  and  grand  ! 
Now  I  stand, 

And  shade  my  eyes  to  see 
What  life  shall  mean  to  me. 

Cut  the  silver-hearted  mist 

Stealing  softly  down  the  valley ; 


106  "OF    A    FAMILY    OF    REFORMERS." 

Blot  me  out  the  purple,  kissed 

By  phantoms  crowned  in  gold,  that  rally 

Merrily  upon  the  land, 

Gay  and  grand. 

Here  I  stand, 
And  turn  my  eyes  to  see 
What  life  may  mean  to  me. 

There  seems  —  a  path  across  a  hill, 
But  little  worn  (but  little  lonely), 
A  climb  into  the  twilight  still ; 

There  seems  —  a  midnight   watch,  and  only 
Through  the  dark  a  low  command 
(Grave  and  grand), 
"  Still  you  stand, 
And  strain  your  eyes  to  see 
What  life  to  you  shall  be." 


"OF    A    FAMILY    OF    REFORMERS."  IO/ 

The  binding  up  of  bruised  reeds 

Of  thought  and  act ;  the  steady  bearing 
Out  of  scorned  purposes  to  deeds, 

The  rest  of  strife  ;    the  doubt  of  daring,  — 
The  hope  that  He  will  understand 
Why  my  hand 
(Though  I  stand) 
Trembles  at  my  eyes  to  see 
What  else  life  means  to  me. 

The  dropping  of  love's  golden  fruit, 

The  slowly  builded  walls  of  distance, 
The  outstretched  hand,  the  meeting  foot, 
Withdrawn  in  doubt,  and  drear,  late  chance 
Of  cooling  autumn  ;  wind  and  sand 
On  the  land. — 
But  I  stand, 


108  "OF   A   FAMILY    OF    REFORMERS." 

And  brush  my  tears  to  see 

All  that  life  means  to  me. 

* 

The  honest  choice  of  good  or  ill, 

A  heart  of  marble,  prayer,  and  fire, 
The  strength  to  do,  the  power  to  will 
From  earth's  reluctance,  Heaven's  desire, 
And  God's  step  upon  the  land 
(Grave  and  grand). 
Glad  I  stand 
And  lift  my  eyes  to  see 
The  life  He  sends  to  me. 


A  DEAD   LILY. 

O  PLACID,  fainted  lily  ! 

You  neither  toiled  nor  spun  ; 
You    neither  thought    nor   wrought,   or  well    or 

illy,  - 

And  now  your  day  is  done. 

You  lived  —  to  be  a  lily. 

And  should  I  gain  or  miss 
My  life's  long  purposes  or  well  or  illy, 

What  could  I,  more  than  this  ? 


BENEDICTION. 

t 
I  WONDER  will  you  take  it,  Dear, — 

My  blessing,  from  me,  when  you  hear 
For  what  it  is  you  ask  me  ? 

The  shrouded  and  averted  thing, 
With  hidden  face  upon   its  wing, 
With  whose  dark  name  you  task  me. 

The  solemn,  awful,  smiling  thing, 

With  shining  face  upon  its  wing, 

And  shining  hand  to  hold  you. 


BENEDICTION.  I  I  I 

The  promise  of  a  princely  friend, 
The  richest  gift  I  have  to  send, 

With  which  my  love  could  fold  you. 

So  light  to  think  !    so  hard  to  say  ! 
A  bitter  thing  to  give  away  ! 
So  sweet  an  one  to  borrow  ! 

Yet  still,  indeed,  my  dreaming  fond 
Can  never  rise  nor  reach  beyond 
The  blessing,  Dear,  —  of  Sorrow. 


"ONLY   A   CHROMO." 

A  BLESSING  on  the  Art  that  dares 
(Cold  critic,  call  it  what  you  may  !) 
Bring  precious  things  to  common  homes  ; 
A  blessing  fall  on  it,  I  say ! 

Like  Heaven's  happy  rain,  that  loves 
Upon  the  just  and  unjust  to  fall  ; 
Th'  impartial  shelter  of  the  skies, 
Or  sun's  heart  beating  warm  for  all ; 

So  be  it  Art's  high  privilege 

To  hold  a  language  and  a  speech 


"ONLY  A  CIIROMO."  113 

With  humble  needs  ;  to  lay  its  gifts  — 
And  gladly  —  in  the  common  reach. 

So  be  it  Art's  insignia 

Of  undisputed  royalty, 

That  out  of  largeness  groweth  love, 

And  out  of  choiceness,  charity. 

There  is  my  picture,  caught  and  throned 
Within  four  walls  for  me  at  last ; 
My  eyes,  which  never  thought  to  see 
Fit  semblance  of  her,  hold  her  fast. 

Murillo's  Mary!  that  one  face 
We  call  the  Immaculate.     Ah,  see 


I  14  "ONLY   A    CHROMO. 

How  goddess-like  she  fills  the  room, 
How  woman-like  she  leans  to  me. 


I  would  not  garner  in  my  home, 
I  could  not  gather  to  my  heart, 
A  dim  gray  mockery  of  that  face 
Chilled  under  the  engraver's  art. 

These  human  colors  deepen,  glow ; 
This  human  flesh  will  palpitate  ; 
These  human  eyes, — like  human  eyes 
Alight,  alive,  —  stir,  watch,  and  wait 

Perhaps  you  wonder  why  I  chose 
This  single-windowed  little  room 


"ONLY    A    CHROMO."  115 

Where  only  at  the  evenfall, 

A  moment's  space,  the  sunlight's  bloom 

Shall  open  out  upon  the  face 
I  prize  so  dear ;  I  think,  indeed, 
There  's  something  of  a  whim  in  that, 
And  something  of  a  certain  need 

I  could  not  make  you  understand, 
That  solitude  or  sickness  gives 
To  take  in  somewhat  solemn  guise 
The  blessings  that  enrich  our  lives. 

I  like  to  watch  the  late,  soft  light, — 
No  spirit  could  more  softly  come, — 


Il6  "ONLY   A    CHROMO." 

The  picture  is  the  only  thing 

It  touches  in  the  darkening  room. 


I  wonder  if  to  her  indeed, 
The  maiden  of  the  spotless  name, 
In  holier  guise  or  tenderer  touch 
The  annunciating  angel  came. 

Madonna  Mary  !     Here  she  lives  ! 
See  how  my  sun  has  wrapped  her  in  ! 
O  solemn  sun  !    O  maiden  face  ! 
O  joy  that  never  knoweth  sin ! 

How  shall  I  name  thee  ?     How  express 
The  thoughts  that  unto  thee  belong? 


"ONLY    A    CHROMO."  1 1/ 

Sometimes  a  sigh  interprets  them, 
At  other  times,  perhaps,  a  song. 

More  often  still  it  chanceth  me 
They  grow  and  group  into  a  prayer 
That  guards  me  down  my  sleepless  hours, 
A  sentry  on  the  midnight  air. 

But  when  the  morning's  monotone 
Begins  of  sickness  or  of  pain, 
They  catch  the  key,  and,  striking  it, 
They  turn  into  a  song  again. 


Great  Master,  whose  enraptured  eyes 
Saw  maiden  Mary's  holy  face, 


1  1 8  "ONLY   A    CHROMO.' 

Whose  human  hand  could  lift  and  move 
An  earthly  passion  from  its  place, 

And  set  therein  the  spotless  shape 
Which  Heavenly  love  itself  might  wear, 
And  set  thereon  the  dazzling  look 
Which  Heavenly  purity  must  bear ; 

Thy  blessing  on  the  Art  must  fall 
(If  thou  couldst  speak  as  thou  canst  see) 
Which  brings  thy  best  to  common  homes, 
Thy  mighty  picture  unto  me. 


A  WOMAN'S  MOOD. 

BECAUSE  you  cannot  pluck  the  flower, 
You  pass  the  sweet  scent  by ; 

Because  you  cannot  have  the  stars 
You  will  not  see  the  sky 

No  matter  what  the  fable  means 

Put  into  English  speech  ; 
No  matter  what  the  thing  may  be 

You  long  for,  out  of  reach. 

'T  is  out  of  reach,  and  that  's  enough 
For  you  and  me  for  aye, 


120  A    WOMAN  S    MOOD. 

And  understood  in  that  still  speech 
That  souls  interpret  by. 

The  "  little  language "  of  a  look, 
A  tone,  a  turn,  a  touch, 

An  eloquence  that  while  it  speaketh 
Nothing,  yet  sayeth  much. 

Suppose  that  in  some  steadfast  hour 

I  offered  you  the  hand 
Of  a  woman's  faithful  friendliness  — 

Ah,  hush  !     I  understand. 


I  spare  you  speech,  to  spare  you  pain ; 
Perhaps  I  'd  spare  you  more 


A    WOMAN  S    MOOD.  121 

Than  men  are  made  to  comprehend, 
If,  as  I  said  before, 

I  held  to  you  that  open  hand, 

And  you  should  turn  away 
I  hardly  know  which  one  of  us 

Were  hurt  the  worse  that  day. 

I  hardly  know  the  reason  why, 

But  women  are  so  made  ; 
I  could  not  give  a  man  a  rose 

To  see  it  'neath  his  tread. 

Although  he  trod  on  it,  indeed, 

To  save  his  very  soul 
6 


122  A   WOMAN  S    MOOD. 

From  stifling  in  the  thoughts  of  me 
Its  sweetness  might  enroll. 

I  'd  rather  he  should  gather  it 

Within  his  trembling  hand 
As  sacredly  as  twilight  takes 

The  shapes  of  sea  and  land, 

And  solemnly  as  twilight  learns, 

In  lonely,  purple  state, 
Upon  the  hills  the  sun  has  fled 

To  bide  its  time,  and  wait. 

For  what  ?  —  to  wait  for  what,  you  ask  ? 
I  cannot  tell,  indeed, 


A    WOMANS    MOOD.  I2j 

For  what.     I  do  not  know  for  what. 
It  is  the  woman's  creed ! 

I  only  know  I  'd  wait,  and  keep 

Steel-loyal  and  steel-true 
Unto  the  highest  hope  I  held, 

Though  't  were  the  saddest,  too. 

Unto  the  deepest  faith  I  had 

In  a  created  thing  ; 
Unto  the  largest  love  I  knew, 

Though  love's  delight  took  wing 

And  fled  away  from  me,  and  left 
Love's  dear  regret  alone. 


124  A  WOMAN'S  MOOD. 

The  chrism  of  loving  all  I  could, 
And  loving  only  one. 

I  think  the  woman  I  preferred  — 

If  I  were  such  a  man  — 
Might  lean  out  helpfully  across 

My  life's  imperfect  plan  ; 

Might  lend  me  mercy,  grace,  and  peace 

In  fashion  womanly, 
Although  I  knew  her  rarest  smile 

Would  never  shine  on  me  ; 

I  think  I  'd  say  right  manfully, — 
And  so  it  all  would  end, — 


A    WOMAN  S    MOOD.  125 

Than  any  other  woman's  love, 
I  'd  rather  be  her  friend ! 

And  take  the  hand  she  dared  not  hold, 

Before  its  courage  slips, 
And  take  the  word  she  could  not  speak 

From  off  her  grieving  lips, 

And  be  to  her  heart  what  I  could 

(We  will  not  mark  the  line), 
And,  like  a  comrade,  call  her  soul 

To  walk  in  peace  with  mine. 

A  nobler  man  for  that  grave  peace, 
I  think,  dear  friend,  I  were, 


126  A  WOMAN'S  MOOD. 

And  richer  were  I  than  to  lose 
My  love  in  losing  her. 

And  if  I  speak  a  riddle,  sir, 
That  on  your  fancy  jars,  — 

You  know  we  're  talking  about  flowers, 
And  thinking  about  stars  ! 


A    MAN'S    REPLY. 

THAT  heart  were  something  cold,  I  think, 

That  on  the  light  of  stars  relied 

For  daily  fire  ;    and  cruel  is 

The  perfumed  breath  of  flowers  denied 

The  longing,  lifted  human  hand  ; 

And  bitter  to  the  soul,  I  stand 

And  fling  your  woman's  fancies  back 

Beneath  the  woman's  tender  feet ! 

A  woman  only  knoweth  love 

To  know  that  it  is  passing  sweet, 


128  A  MAN'S  REPLY. 

To  know  that  all  her  heart  is  glad, 
Or  else  to  know  that  she  is  sad 
Because  it  failed  her  ;  and  forsooth, 
I  think  she  has  an  extra  sense 
To  love  by,  granted  not  to  man: 
Love's  measureless  own  recompense 
Consists  in  loving  :   there  's  her  creed. 
A  pretty  thought,  in  faith  or  deed ! 
A  feminine  fair  thought,  but  false 
To  man  forever  !  false  as  light 
To  the  born  blind,  as  painted  fruit 
To  starving  lips  ;   or  as  a  bright 
Departing  sail  to  drowning  eyes. 
Arch  not  to  me,  in  mild  surprise, 
Those  glorious  calm  brows  of  yours ! 
Man  loveth  in  another  way ! 


A    MAN  S    REPLY.  1 29 

He  cannot  take  the  less  without 

The  more  ;  he  has  a  bitter  way 

In  loving,  that  you  know  not  of; 

Nb  tireless,  tender,  calm  resolve 

To  take  Fate's  meagre  crumbs  when  dry 

From  life's  feast-tables  overswept 

And  salt  them  with  his  hidden,  hot, 

Vain  tears !     Contented  to  be  kept 

As  cup-bearer  beside  a  goddess'  place! 

Contented  so  he  see  her  face, 

Her  dear,  denied,  sweet  face,  and  die ! 

0  lost,  my  love  !     I  tell  you  nay, 
You  do  not,  cannot  understand  ; 
Man  loveth  in  another  way ! 

He  is  too  strong,  or  is  too  weak : 

1  cannot  be  the  friend  you  seek ! 

6*  i 


130  A  MAN'S  REPLY. 

And  yet,  in  the  incertitudes 

Of  some  uncomforted,  cold  moods, 

I  cast  my  soul  before  you,  Sweet! 
My  very  soul  beneath  your  feet, 

And,  daring  and  despairing,  think 
That  could  I  stoop  but  once  and  drink, 

One  little  moment  lean  above 

The  sealed,  lost  fountain  of  your  love,  — 

Could  taste,  just  taste  before  I  die, 
Its  sacred,  sheltered  mystery,  — 

Could  call  you  for  one  hour  mine ! 
One  little,  little  hour  mine !  — 


A  MAN'S  REPLY.  131 

I  think  I  could  arise  and  go 
From  out  your  presence  then,  and  know 

Myself  that  possible  poised  man 
Who,  living,  loving,  longing,  can 

Yet  make  himself  the  thing  he  may,  — 
Live  in  the  woman's  nobler  way, — 

Love,  asking  Love  no  other  gauge 
Than  the  exceeding  privilege 

Of  adding  by  some  patient  stress. 
Of  pain,  unto  the  happiness,  — 

Or  be  it  bright,  or  be  it  dim  — 
Of  the  sweet  soul  denied  to  him. 


EVENING    PRAYER, 

TAKE  unto  Thyself,  O  Father ! 

This  folded  day  of  thine, 

This  weary  day  of  mine. 
Its  ragged  corners  cut  me  yet 
O,  still  the  jar  and  fret ! 
Father !   do  not  forget 
That  I  am  tired 

With  this  day  of  thine. 

Breathe  thy  pure  breath,  watching  Father! 
On  this  marred  day  of  thine, 
This  erring  day  of  mine. 


EVENING   PRAYER.  133 

Wash  it  white  of  stain  and  spot, 
O,  cleanse  its  every  blot ! 
Reproachful  Eyes !   remember  not 

That  I  have  grieved  thee 
On  this  day  of  thine !  ' 


SATURDAY   NIGHT   IN   THE   HARBOR. 

THE  boats  bound  in  across  the  bar, 
Seen  in  fair  colors  from  afar, 
Grown  to  dun  colors  strong  and  near  ; 
Their  very  shadows  seem  to  fear 
The  shadows  of  a  week  of  harms, 
The  memories  of  a  week's  alarms, 
And  quiver  like  a  happy  sigh 
As  ship  and  shadow,  drifting  by, 
Glide  o'er  the  harbor's  peaceful  face, 
Each  to  its  Sabbath  resting-place. 

And  some  like  weary  children  come, 
With  sobbing  sails,  half  sick  for  home  ; 


SATURDAY    NIGHT    IN    THE    HARBOR.  135 

And  some,  like  lovers'  thoughts,  to  meet 
The  veiled  shore,  spring  daring,  sweet ; 
And  some  reluctant,  in  the  shade, 
The  great  reef  dropt,  like  souls  afraid, 
Creep  sadly  in.     Against  the  shore 
Ship  unto  shadow  turneth  more 
And  more.     Ships,  ocean,  shadow,  shore  ! 
Part  not,  nor  stir  forevermore  ! 

My  thoughts  sail  inward  silently, 

My  week-day  thoughts,  O  God,  to  thee ! 

Cold  fears,  evasive  like  a  star, 

And  hopes  whose  gayest  colors  are 

Akin  to  shades  of  fear.     Wild  dreams 

Whose  unimprisoned  sweetness  seems 

To-night  a  presence  like  a  blame, 


136  SATURDAY    NIGHT    IN    THE    HARBOR. 

A  solid  presence  like  a  shame : 
And  faint  temptations  with  held  breath 
Make  room  for  cares  as  dark,as  death, 
Give  place  to  broken  aims,  that  sail 
Dismasted  from  some  heart-spent  gale. 

And  those  come  leaping  lightly  in, 
And  these  crawl  laggard,  as  a  sin 
Turned  shoreward  —  Godward  —  ever  must. 
My  soul  sits  humble  in  the  dust, 
Content  to  think  that  in  His  grace 
Each  care  shall  find  its  Sabbath  place, 
Content  to  know  that,  less  or  more 
No  sin  can  harbor  near  the  shore. 


THE   LOST   POEM. 

FLUSHED  with  fancies,   I  bethought  me, 
"  Into  music  I  will  set  them, 
Like  a  pearl  into  its  setting 
Of  the  finest  golden  fretting  ; 
Never  shall  the  world  forget  them  ; 
It  shall  sing  me,  ring  me  back  the  melody  ; 
It  shall  rise  and  bless  the  poem  while    it   bless- 
eth  me." 

But,  ah  me  !  some  faintness  ailed  me, 
Or  it  ailed  the  music  rather. 


13  THE    LOST    POEM. 

Was  it  all  a  stir  of  gladness  ? 
Was  it  half  a  pang  of  sadness  ? 
Do  my  best,  I  could  not  gather 
From  my  heart's  store  any  chord  of  harmony  ; 
No    other    thought    was    music    to    me    but   the 
thought  of  thee. 

Proud  as  joy  my  failure  makes  me  ! 
Proud  I  sit  and  sing  about  it ; 
Not  in  finest  poet-fashion, 
Not  for  deepest  poet's  passion, 
Would  my  soul  have  gone  without  it,1 
While  the  old  earth  asketh  song  or  psalmody, 
Heart,    remember !  love    shall    still    the     truest 
music  be  ! 


ALL   THE   RIVERS. 

"  All  the  rivers  run  into  the  sea." 
Like  the  pulsing  of  a  river, 
The  motion  of  a  song, 
Wind  the  olden  words  along 
The  tortuous  turnings  of  my  thoughts  whenever 
I  sit  beside  the  sea. 


"  All  the  rivers  run  into  the  sea. 
O  you  little  leaping  river, 


14°  ALL    THE   RIVERS. 

Laugh  on  beneath  your  breath  ! 
With  a  heart  as  deep  as  death, 
Strong   stream,    go   patient,   grave,  and    hasting 

never,  — 
I  sit  beside  the  sea. 

"  All  the  rivers  run  into  the  sea." 
Why  the  passion  of  a  river  ? 
The  striving  of  a  soul  ? 
Calm  the  eternal  waters  roll 
Upon  the  eternal  shore.     At  last,  whatever 
Seeks  it  —  finds  the  sea. 

"  All  the  rivers  run  into  the  sea." 
O  thou  bounding,  burning  river, 


ALL   THE    RIVERS.  141 

Hurrying  heart !     I  seem 
To  know  (so  one  knows  in  a  dream) 
That  in  the  waiting  heart  of  God  forever, 
Thou  too  shalt  find  the  sea. 


THE   END. 


Cambridge  :   Electrotyped  and  Printed  by  Welch,  Bigelow,  &  Co. 


1 1 


n 

issy5y5S 

y&3 
W257 

Ward,   Eliza 

Deth  Stuart 

po 

OCT/1U     5T/ 

uuies 

j 

14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 
Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


9,9  1961 


LD  21A-50m-8 .'61 


General  Library 


